


when the thunder hits the ground

by noblealice



Category: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Future Fic, Gen, Post-Finale, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-27
Updated: 2009-06-27
Packaged: 2019-06-27 02:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15676107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblealice/pseuds/noblealice
Summary: "She kicks down the door and shoves an impressive gun in his face, its size meant to be more imposing than her small frame."Post 2x22 'Born to Run', written for ficbot in the scc_reloaded ficathon on Livejournal in 2009, for the prompt: “Adult Savannah meets up with our John, newly arrived in the future, and they bond about 'growing up' with Sarah as their mother” only this isn’t so much ‘bonding’ as ‘hostile conversation’.





	when the thunder hits the ground

**Author's Note:**

> Set after this drabble: https://noblealiceworks.dreamwidth.org/41658.html; titles for both are taken from the same song; Explosion by Laurent Wolf.

John knew Savannah would be coming and so he takes his time waking his body up.  
  
He’s taken to sleeping in his clothes again, ready to run at a moment’s notice but that’s not what this situation requires. It took some getting used to at first, changing his instincts to fight over flight, but he’s making some progress; his shoes are still on the floor and he hasn’t moved for them yet. If it were the steps of a machine he’d heard coming down the hall, he’d be wearing them and halfway out the back door by now, but SkyNet has never sent a human to kill him before and he doubts that they’d start now.  
  
She kicks down the door and shoves an impressive gun in his face, its size meant to be more imposing than her small frame. Her face makes a loop of surprise and he supposes that no-one’s ever waited patiently for her justice before. The dust from the door meeting the carpet swirls up around her red hair, and the light from the hall frames her silhouette of fierce determination.  
  
Her face is obscured by the darkness that his eyes have adjusted to but hers have not so he waits for her to walk closer before he studies her properly. He’s surprised by a familiar look of steel when she moves into the half light of his window.  
  
It reminds him of someone he used to know.  
  
It soon fades; she’s nervous now that he’s just calmly sitting here and he can tell, just by the way she’s pointing her gun at his face that she has never killed another person before.  
  
(She is like his mother in that way.)  
  
Sure, he can imagine her shooting with precision at the cyborgs that searched for her and the ruthlessness that she probably employed when emptying her clip into their synthetic bodies, but there's an extra tenseness in her muscles as she points her gun at him that let him know that his mother had not failed this girl. She has protected her from experiencing death of the most personal kind – when you are the cause of it.   
  
(Savannah would not be haunted with memories of the sound of a man’s last breath.)  
  
He bets that she was not looking to prove herself now, not after all the effort she must have expended to find him, so this standoff was just a precaution and he breaths easier after knowing that he could look this child in the eyes and not have to worry if her bullet would be the one that finally laid him to rest.  
  
He's only been in this future for eighteen months before she found him, yet he could guess from the relief in her eyes that she had been searching long before that. He remembered how it had felt to report a disappointment and knew from her face that this meeting meant she had not failed Sarah Connor in her promise.  
  
(Only his mother could make someone that scared of failure.)  
  
He nods to her bloody shoulder, “You got a med kit?”  
  
She’s taken off guard and relaxes her grip for a split-second, it’s not long, but the hesitation allows him to easily disarm her. He tries to smile reassuringly as he returns her gun, butt first.  
  
“Now that _that’s_ over with, let’s get you bandaged up.”  
  
It’s the first time he sees awe in someone’s eyes that’s only half due to something he’s done and not tales they've been told and he wonders (again) what he gave up when he jumped past his identity. More importantly, he wonders what stories his mother has told her in order to make her eyes shine in that way.  
  
Lastly, he wonders if he could ever possibly live up to that mythical man.  


 ---

 

“I heard rumours.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You were wondering how I knew you’d been looking for me.”  
  
She searches his face and he’s reminded of a little girl in plaid with an imaginary friend.  
  
“You haven’t changed much.”  
  
“You remember that day?” It’s only been more than a year for him, but so much more has happened to that little girl; she’s grown up and some twisted fate has led her here.  
  
“Sarah wouldn’t let me forget.”  
  
Just like that she cuts to the heart of the matter, his hopes and fears rooted in their joint driving force. He had always suspected...but to hear it confirmed so  _casually_ , like she wasn’t this legendary warrior he had built up in the lonely nights while he waited...  
  
...like she wasn’t just  _his_  mother anymore.  
  
It only takes him a minute to adjust. Let it never be said that John Connor can’t adapt as well as those fucking machines. He’s brand new to sharing the one thing that was unique to him and his mind’s still reeling a bit when he feels something unfamiliar.  
  
Savannah lays her hand on top of his and she’s suddenly so much  _older_  than him.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
After talking, he’s surprised that she’s got the righteous fury and zealous energy of a new convert. He was expecting someone world-weary, not an earnest new soldier itching for her first mission. He wonders what it must have been like to live with a middle-aged Sarah. He doesn’t think it is possible for her to have been  _more_  cautious, so maybe they took more risks now that he wasn’t there to put them all in danger with his face and his destiny.  
  
He also can’t imagine her settling down for her remaining years before Judgement Day, enjoying the roses. His imaginings become facts that are confirmed by the way Savannah’s eyes dart around the room, checking for exits. Life has not been easy and stationary for this girl.  
  
_Who was the Sarah Connor that raised this war-toughened woman before him?_  
  
He remembers how Cameron had relayed the events they had jumped over, paying special attention to the attack on the World Trade Centre, an event people would expect him to know. He remembers how cold her tone was when she told him of the hundreds of lives lost, the thousands of lives ruined by one senseless act.  
  
People today tell him their own stories about Judgement Day, their estimates of how many were killed in the first twenty-four hours of fire and fear. None of their voices are as cold or calculating as Cameron’s, yet he can never stop the shiver that creeps up his spine.  
  
He seems to skip over everything important, anything that defines an era, changes a generation. For a second he wonders what it would be like to actually experience the life-changing moments along with everyone else instead of just hearing of them second-hand.  
  
As early as he can remember, he has spent his time running from his own life so it was only natural, he supposes, to end up running from everyone else’s as well.  
  
This girl before him has her own story of Judgement Day, a story that he has never heard. She knew about it before it came and he wonders if that made it any easier to accept when the bombs finally fell.  
  
She is restless, still standing before his seated form, unable to keep still. The safety is on, but the gun doesn’t leave her hand.  
  
Throughout their conversation, she never waits to hear him out, constantly interrupting him before he can explain.  
  
(She is like their mother that way.)  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“When did you stop trusting them?” She asks abruptly, surprising an expression from him.  
  
“Machines?”  
  
She nods, curtly, like clarification is an insult or worse, a waste.  
  
“When I grew up, I suppose.”  
  
“When you left your mother.” She redefines, finding something lacking in his answer.  
  
“Does it allow you to trust humans more easily?”   
  
He wants to tell her that he doesn’t, that the Connor motto precludes trust. But sometime over the last few months he’s allowed himself to relax now that no-one knows his name. Sure, he hasn’t made any new friendships, but it’s hard not to rely on your father when he’s holding out his hand for you and asking you to jump.  
  
He’s thinking of his response when he feels the butt of her gun crack against his skull and the next thing he sees is the carpet before white pain blinds his vision.  
  
He should have known by the way she could never relax, never let her guard down. He should have followed her example instead of letting his weakness be exploited. She is probably the only person alive who knows what his weakness is: he wants to believe in the good in people, wants to believe that humanity is worth saving.  
  
He’s not surprised that this stranger knows this about him; a good soldier never enters a mission without knowing all the facts, all the variables.  
  
“That’s for the human race.” She spits, disgusted.  
  
His head is still cloudy with pain and he can only struggle to get his bearings. He’s staring at his shoes when he hears the sharp crack of the bullet, when he feels the hot slice of it enter his body.  
  
Faces swim before his fading vision, so disappointed in him. He is not ready to greet them yet, but he doesn’t have much choice.  
  
“That was for my mother.” She whispers before closing the door behind her.  
  
And he wonders which one.


End file.
